


snap out of it

by orphan_account



Category: Total Drama
Genre: (brief) mentions of vomit, M/M, idk wht else to put here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2187390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah gets plane sick. Alejandro helps him out (even if it is a little).</p>
            </blockquote>





	snap out of it

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my quotev but i’m not linking that shit

Noah rolls his shoulders, the headache finally getting the best of him as he discards his book on his armrest. His mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth and color beginning to drain from his face. Owen doesn’t notice. He’s too busy doing… _something_ , that’s for sure.

He covers his face with his hands, rubs his eyes, slumps down on his seat and huffs, vision spinning wildly. Noah sees Tyler briefly pass by with Lindsay, an arm snaked around her waist and a goofy smile plastered on his face.

The pounding in his head eventually becomes a migraine, and Noah finally stands, forehead creasing and mouth curving into a deep frown. He makes his way to the bathroom, stumbling on his way when the plane begins to tilt downward and sharply rise. The contents of his stomach slowly creep up his throat, and as terrible as it is, Noah swallows it down, narrowing his eyes.

“Chris and Chef are out to get me,” he mumbles, frustratedly walking out of the stuffy first-class compartment and into the empty hall. His eyes briefly scan the walls before he finds the lavatory, clutching his stomach and rushing over to open the door.

The doorknob doesn’t twist. Noah scowls, almost tempted to kick down the door but he realizes that its sturdy material would ruin his leg afterward. Rolling his eyes, he clenches his hand into a fist to quickly rap on the door, but freezes in anticipation when he hears a muffled voice.

It is faintly masculine, the one and only Alejandro letting out his thoughts in the confessional. Noah has something to let out in there as well. The feelings of nausea are shouldered off once the boy hesitantly presses his ear against the door, soaking up the buzz of the soundless room. Alejandro finally speaks. He sounds tired, relaxed, off-guard.

The plane sharply dips once more, makes some sort of a curve and Noah hears people express their noises of surprise and fear. Something breaks, and the symptoms rush throughout his body all over again.

In the lavatory, Alejandro is blabbing about something with unimportance to the camera, occasionally waving his hands and tapping his chin in deep thought. This was the hour that Chris had promised that there would be no screen time, so the contestants were free to interact as they’d wish.

His shoulders hunch when the plane abruptly shifts, and Alejandro swore that he could hear someone stumble outside the door.

“Are you alright, _mi querido_?” he asks as he opens the door, to only find Noah. He isn’t displeased.

“How long have you even been in there?” Noah retorts stiffly, pushing against Alejandro’s chest and into the bathroom.

Alejandro smirks. “A couple of minutes. Why? Need some alone time?”

“Yes, and you’re wasting some of it,” Noah quickly says, shutting the door with a click. Alejandro begins to lightly smile, place his fingers on the doorknob and silently turn it. He widens his eyes.

“I never would’ve thought you as the sneaky type,” he says, stepping right into the confined space.

The tanned boy quickly glances over at Alejandro before continuing to fiddle with the wires for the confessional’s camera. “Shut up. Help me.”

He does. Rips the wires apart in a flash, and expects the shove out of the room. Alejandro doesn’t budge, though. Noah can’t be bothered with this anymore; his throat burns, his head spins, and his knees are about to give in. He glares at Alejandro before his mouth is filled with bile, and he lets it out in the toilet (thank god), heaving his stomach and tightly gripping the seat.

Alejandro does nothing but watch with utter fascination, cocking up a brow and unconsciously reaches towards Noah and pats his back. Burromuerto men must not give into acts of sympathy, but he lets it pass. They’re not on-camera.

He lightly drums his fingers against Noah’s curved spine, gently gliding his thumb over the nape of his neck and softly coos in his ear, hushing Noah at first. “Shh, _está bien_ , _estoy aquí_ …”

Noah tenses up at this, his periodic nausea slowly passing away. He adverts his eyes once he flushes.

“Shut —” a shallow breath, “ _up_.”

Alejandro chuckles, rubs soothing circles in Noah’s back. He stands, offering Noah a hand. The boy squints up at him first, then hesitantly interlocks fingers with him and pulls himself up, exchanging glances with Alejandro. “Better?” he asks.

“No, actually, I’m feeling even worse with your presence around me,” he remarks, brushing past Alejandro to wash his hands.

“That is because I outshine you, no?”

Noah crosses his arms. “We’ll see about that.”


End file.
